One Phone Call
by rapunzl
Summary: Pre-DT. Tommy struggles to come to terms with the consequences of his actions after the explosion on Mercer’s island. Set in the Canon time line. A TK reconcilation.
1. Part 1

**"One Phone Call" – T – Part 1/3**

** Response to Perfect Chemistry Fic Prompt for July 2008 **

"One Phone Call"  
by rapunzl

Rating: T for brief mentions of violent situations and mild language

Disclaimer: None of the Power Rangers or related characters belong to me (well, except for Rachel, but she might take offense to that insinuation). I make no profit off this little endeavor besides my own enjoyment... and hopefully, yours.

Summary: Pre-DT. Tommy struggles to come to terms with the consequences of his actions after the explosion on Mercer's island. Set in the Canon timeline.

Author's Notes: Loosely inspired by Kim/Pink-Green-White-4ever's story "Never Gone," which so poignantly illustrated just how powerful a single phone call can actually be. Thank you for encouraging me to write this despite my endless concerns. Another bit of thanks to Cathy/FalconCraneLove for her brilliant Fic Prompt, which revived this idea and motivated me to finally finish it. And finally, tremendous hugs and everlasting gratitude are sent to Angela/nm4ever for more than one late night of motivation and encouragement.

Author's Request: So... this is the first bit of writing I've mustered up the courage to post... well, ever. After my repeated debacles during the Eternal Search For A Beta (TM), I had pretty much concluded that it was the universe's way of telling me that my talents (if any) lie elsewhere. Luckily (or maybe not, you decide!) I found the quote for the first part of this fic and it inspired me to keep working on it; Cathy's July Prompt finally clinched it. I merely ask that you please be brutally honest with your reviews, if any. Thanks!

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"_Success comes to those who are neither afraid to fail nor discouraged by failures."_

_ Unknown_

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_Sunday, 1:46 AM  
__Harborside Apartments, Unit 502  
Angel Grove, California_

A high pitched squeal filled the dimly lit living room of a cramped but homey fifth floor apartment near the Angel Grove harbor. Luckily for its sole occupant, the neighbors didn't even stir in their sleep. In a city notorious for its devastating alien attacks, most residents of Angel Grove barely even blinked unless a full scale assault hit the city.

Thrilled to have the apartment to herself for the very first time, Rachel Ashley Sullivan skipped silently around her living room, loudly humming an all too familiar cheery tune. A precocious girl, she was well aware that exactly six years ago this minute, she had been born.

Six years ago, Miranda Sullivan had gone into early labor in the midst of a ferocious zord battle between the Zeo Rangers and the Machine Empire. Despite her intimate familiarity with monster drills, she hadn't been able to make it to the hospital before the barricades through town had been erected. A nurse, she had talked a brave but terrified teenage girl through the birthing process while they waited for the attack to come to its inevitable conclusion. As if in honor of the Ranger's success, Rachel's first cries in this world echoed the monster's shrieks as it exploded into harmless dust less than a mile away. Miranda had thanked the girl and promised that her daughter's middle name would be christened in her honor. Two and a half years later, Miranda and her startlingly bright toddler had been staggered to find that same girl, now a strong and proud woman, stand defiantly before Astronema and the world and proclaim that she was the yellow Space Ranger.

Rachel grasped the small television remote control, waving it wildly about her as if wielding a mighty sword while reminiscing about the very same battle that had heralded her birth. She swooped and ducked, jumping on and off the couch while fighting off dozens of imaginary Cogs. She had always adored the Power Rangers, their hometown superheroes in brightly colored armor, even though there had not been an alien attack in her memory. She even insisted on being a different ranger every Halloween – last year was yellow Zeo - but her action figures of the Space Rangers held a place of honor in her collection. She twirled around, being careful not to bump into the glass table, and imagined the evil Cogs exploding against her ferocious assault.

Her birthday had always been her favorite day, but not because there were presents, candy, and surprises. It meant that she was older, just one step closer to becoming old enough to be a Power Ranger herself. It was so frustrating; she just knew she was brave enough and quick enough and strong enough to be a Ranger _right now_. She could do it – if only someone would let her. She grinned. Her mother had always told her that once she put her mind to something, there was no stopping her. And Rachel _was_ going to be a Power Ranger – and probably a yellow one, now that she thought about it. She moved towards her bedroom to eye the pink and white themed comforter and considered just how irritated her mother would be at a complete color change when she heard the muffled thump in the hallway.

Her heart suddenly leapt into her throat, the fearlessness she had displayed while battling her make-believe enemies long forgotten. She instinctually moved towards her mother's bedroom before she remembered that her mother was working the night shift at the hospital. She swallowed thickly. She was _all alone_. Why had she insisted that she was old enough to spend the few hours by herself? She gasped as she heard a quiet curse and the sound of someone – or something – leaning heavily on the door to their apartment.

The doorknob jiggled.

Her mind raced into overdrive, jumping to its inevitable conclusion: The Cogs were coming to get her! They knew she was aiming to be a Ranger and they were coming to get her now, before she had the power to stop them!

Gripping her only weapon – the remote control – in her small fingers, Rachel leapt behind the couch, trying to keep it between her and the oncoming enemy.

_Knock. Knock._

She ducked her head lower behind the couch, whimpering. They were going to get her, and they were going to bring her to King Mondo, and he was going to make her into a machine, and she was never going to see her mommy or -

"Miranda? Are you home?"

The weary question penetrated the haze of fear that had enveloped her. How did the Cogs know her mother's name?

And why were they knocking?

Rachel felt a blush creep up her cheeks, abruptly hearing the mental version of her mother lecturing her about her wild, sometimes uncontrollable imagination. More clearheaded, she heard the person outside the door let out a fatigued groan before she heard another thump on the ground. Walking over to the door with more confidence than she actually felt – some part of her was still certain that it really _was _the Cogs out there – she took a deep breath.

"Who's there?" she asked, her voice trembling.

It was a long time before she heard the quiet, uncertain response. "Rachel?"

She immediately recognized the voice as the friendly man who lived down the hall from them. He had watched her several times a few months ago when her mother had to work very late, just like tonight, but he had been out of town for weeks now. "Hi, Mr. Oliver!" she responded cheerily, already climbing a stepstool and reaching for the chain. Mr. Oliver wasn't a stranger – he was tons of fun. Maybe he would play Power Rangers with her and help her battle against the Cogs...

Rachel shrieked and tumbled off the stepstool, landing hard on her rear. _That wasn't Mr. Oliver._ The man sitting on the ground outside their door had deep circles under his eyes, reminiscent of the monster movies she had peeked at when her mother thought she was in bed. There was a large, purple colored bruise swelling his jaw line, distorting his face into a grotesque, almost inhuman parody of his normally handsome features. The left leg of his pants had been torn open to the knee, revealing a blistering, inflamed scorch mark that ran the length of his calf. The rest of his clothes were more intact, but still damp in some places – yet, none of that was what had panicked her.

Rachel had seen people hurt before – she had sometimes sat with her mother at the hospital when she couldn't find a sitter – but this was different. It was his eyes... they were haunted, like ghosts and demons and something even worse than she could imagine lived inside and wouldn't ever, ever come out.

They were the eyes of a dead man.

She scrambled backwards until she could go no further, desperate to get away from the monster that had climbed inside of Mr. Oliver's skin. The involuntary cry she let loose as she slammed her back into the kitchen counter brought a touch of humanity back to the man's hollow expression.

"Oh Rachel, I'm so sorry," he mumbled apologetically, his voice low and gravelly. "I guess I don't look very good right now." He rubbed a hand down his face, wincing as his fingers pressed against a small cut just above his eyebrow.

"What happened?" she asked breathlessly. The horrific vision faded and Rachel finally recognized the man behind the bruises. She couldn't imagine who could have hurt Mr. Oliver so badly – she had watched him practicing in the side yard and was certain even a real ninja wouldn't be able to best him. Despite her earlier vow to herself about letting her imagination run unchecked, Rachel had the sudden intuition that _real _Cogs had gotten Mr. Oliver tonight instead of her.

"I..." He looked torn, an agonized expression flickering across his pallid features. She watched him swallow it down, forcing himself to remain calm. She knew what that looked like – she had seen her mommy do the same thing when she had cut herself in the kitchen but didn't want Rachel to know how much it hurt. "Rachel, do you know where your mom keeps the spare key to my apartment? Mine... got lost," he added lamely.

Nodding mutely, Rachel pulled herself to her feet and rustled through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Finding the small white envelope was easy – it was part of their safety plan. Her mother had told her that if there was ever an emergency like the one that happened when she was born, in her mother's absence, she should take this key and go to Mr. Oliver so he could take care of her until things got better.

The envelope clutched in her fist, she moved hesitantly towards him, realizing he hadn't actually moved into the apartment... or even stood up. "Are you okay, Mr. Oliver? Should I call my mommy to come fix you?"

"No." The response was quick and firm, astonishing her with its intensity. He hadn't managed anything much above a whisper before now, but he reached out and took the envelope from her fingers with a hand that moved with surprising steadiness. "Thank you, Rachel," he added, a touch gentler. "Go back to sleep, okay?" He began the arduous process of regaining his feet, and she noticed him clutch a small backpack tightly against his side.

"Mr. Oliver?"

He let loose another weary sigh before he turned to face her. "Yes?"

She squirmed, and then blurted out the first thing that sprang to mind. "You should call your mommy. She's worried about you. She called looking for you before my mommy went to work."

His face fell, and for a split second, Rachel was certain he was going to cry. But it was gone just as suddenly as it appeared and he mustered up a weak smile. "Thanks, Rach. I'll make sure I do that." He began limping down the hallway towards his apartment, his body hunched painfully around the pack.

"Good night, Mr. Oliver," she said quietly as she swung the door shut and locked it. She stared for a long time at the remote control still clutched in her hand before setting it quietly on the table and heading to bed.

Maybe she wasn't quite ready to be a Power Ranger after all.

At least... not yet.


	2. Part 2

**"One Phone Call" – T – Part 2/3**

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"_If you were going to die soon and had only one phone call you could make, who would you call and what would you say? And why are you waiting?"_

_ Stephen Levine_

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_Sunday, 1:58 AM__  
Harborside Apartments, Unit 506  
Angel Grove, California_

**18**

**18**

**18**

Tommy Oliver stared expressionlessly at the blinking display on his answering machine. Eighteen messages since the last time he checked the machine. Eighteen messages in the past thirty-six hours. Eighteen messages during what felt like the worst thirty-six hours of his interminably long life.

He sat despondently in the dark room, a lone man slumped into a battered armchair. The blinds had been drawn shut weeks ago and Tommy had no urge to open himself up to the world now. The light of the answering machine, the only bit of brightness in the room, shone a deep crimson, its glow flashing over his features like a bloody mask.

A voice inside him begged him to simply leave it be, to go to sleep and deal with the messages in the morning. He was injured, exhausted, and had spent far too long trying to rationalize what had happened while he struggled to find a way home. He didn't need to relive the trauma again. Sleep. Sleep was what he needed.

But every time he closed his eyes, he knew sleep would not come.

He was growing more certain that sleep would never come again.

He caught sight of his bruised and bloodied knuckles as his hand moved forward to press the Play button, a resigned groan erupting from the depths of his chest. He slumped further into his chair as he listened to the tape rewind, his eyes drifting to the small backpack at his feet. Inside that pack was the reason for all of this pain. The reason so many people had been hurt. The reason Dr. Anton Mercer would never...

Tommy bit back a strangled sob as his best friend's cheerful voice filled the dark room. "Hey bro, it's me. I know you won't be back on shore for a few days, but give me a call when you get this. I've got some news for you."

The next several messages were all similar, each spaced only a few hours from the previous one. A humorless chuckle filled the desolate room – his brother in all but blood sometimes took Tommy's "memory problem" a little out of hand. He mindlessly punched the Delete button after each message, taking vicious pleasure in stabbing it violently when a telemarketer's monotonous pitch began the next message. He hesitated when Rocky's bi-monthly "I'm drunk and you're not" message sprang to life, before electing to delete it as well.

It was the eighth message that nearly broke him. Jason's normally jovial voice was pitched low, strained with emotion. "Tommy? Please call me. There's something on the news... Please God, just call me, okay?"

Everything went downhill from there. Jason called again, pleading with him to be at home, to just be okay. Adam was next, asking if he could please call Jason, call anyone, that everyone was worried about him. Jason again, now frantic with worry. Tommy had never heard Jason panicked; even with the world teetering on the edge of a knife's blade, the original Red Ranger had always looked fate square in the eye with an almost unnatural confidence and resolute certainty. But now, the bewildered terror in Jason's voice only made him feel soiled, unworthy of such devotion. Katherine's lilting Australian accent, so filled with concern, started the tears that began rolling helplessly down his cheeks. Jason swearing that he was packing up and heading out there, that he was going to find him if it was the last thing he did. Rocky, now terribly sober, praying that he was okay, so distressed he hadn't even realized half his message had been in Spanish. Jason cursing about the authorities refusing to let him in, that Zack had somehow persuaded him not to morph and plow right through the barricade.

He paused suddenly, his finger hanging over the Delete button as a voice from the past filled the shadowy room. His eyes latched onto the blinking "15" as he froze, spellbound.

"Tommy? It's me. It's Kim. I know it's been a while, but... we're really worried about you. _I'm_ really worried about you. Jason's losing his mind – Zack said he was considering taking out a barricade with his blade blaster, and he's already threatened to tear Andros in half for not returning his calls." Her attempt at levity fell short, failing to draw out even the hint of a smile. "Tommy, I saw the news. They said you're..." Her voice hitched with grief, but even so, her next words were laden with conviction. "You're not. I know you're not. _You can't be_. I know you're out there, somewhere." She sighed deeply, her breath trembling. "Please call me. 212-555-6011."

His throat was constricted so tightly, he wasn't sure he could still breathe. The sense of nostalgia, of remembered comfort was overwhelming, despite the fact that he hadn't heard Kimberly's voice since Muiranthias. Not a word had been spoken between them at Trini's funeral; they hadn't needed to. He had gone directly to the burial site after the church service with the hope of finding a moment alone to gather himself. Instead, he had found Kimberly standing at the edge of the empty grave, dry eyed and staring vacantly into the ragged hole torn into the earth. She had seemed so lost, set adrift in a sea of despair, that it broke his already aching heart. She must have heard his approaching footsteps in the soft grass, but she never flinched, not even when he wordlessly slipped her callused gymnast's fingers in between his own. They stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, instinctively drawing solace from each other's presence as the others began to arrive. Jason stoically stepped up to take Kimberly's other hand, while Zack and Billy stood to his right. Feeling uncomfortably as though he were an unwelcome invader, Tommy had begun to loosen his grip to leave the childhood friends to mourn without intrusion, only to find the pink ranger clutching his hand with dreadful ferocity; the minister had arrived.

There stood Zordon's chosen, inexorably linked together through their shared love and grief. It wasn't until the casket, swathed in yellow roses, had begun to lower into the ground that Kimberly had finally turned her red rimmed eyes to him. She had looked to him imploringly, as if begging him to bring meaning to something that could never make any sense, and all he could do was gather her into his arms as if to shield her from any further sorrow. Only then did she finally break, her sobs harsh and gasping, instantly dampening his pressed black shirt. They stood together, entwined in each other's arms long after the rest of the mourners had departed, five rangers mourning their fallen sixth. They finally separated as dusk had settled, mutely exchanging embraces before returning to their vehicles.

Although the wall between them had cracked on that cheerless day, they behaved as no more than acquaintances in the years following. She had sent him an email on his 21st birthday and he had done the same, but apart from that, they had remained carefully at arms length. He had always regretted the loss of their friendship – in some ways, they had been closer than he and Jason ever could – yet had never found the courage to bridge the chasm between them.

To hear her again, now...

He pressed the skip button without consciously realizing it, moving to the next message in a kind of trance. But the sound of the terrified voices of his parents were too much for him to bear. He deleted the rest without listening, the overwhelming emotion nearly bringing him to his knees.

He stared at the bag lying limply on the ground through tear-filled eyes, anger suddenly coursing through him. It was all _their_ fault. If he had never found them, never realized what they were... God, how could he ever live with himself now?

He was damned, branded once again with the deaths of innocents, and he didn't have the strength left to try to cleanse his battered and tarnished soul a second time.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he was able to pull himself together. Heedless of the hour, he reached for the phone and dialed one of the few numbers he knew by heart. If he was right, then they wouldn't be sleeping any more than he would.

"Tommy? Tommy, is that you?"

He heaved a tired sigh. "Hi, mom."


	3. Part 3

**"One Phone Call" – T – Part 3/3 (COMPLETE)**

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"_In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit."_

_ Albert Schweitzer_

--

_Sunday, 2:27 AM  
__Harborside Apartments, Unit 506  
Angel Grove, California_

"And... Anton's dead, Jase."

Tommy fought back a choked sob as his best friend's harsh gasp echoed accusingly in his ears. He had managed cut the call with his parents short, pleading exhaustion and begging them to call David for him, but he couldn't just leave Jason for the morning. He was as much his family as they were.

"Are you sure? I mean, they said you were, too, and-"

He could feel the thin veil of control slipping away as the images shot through his mind. The waves of people rushing off the island. Their panicked, terrified expressions as the hordes of reprogrammed Tyrannodrones tore through the crowd of helpless scientists. His desperate search for Anton and the gems through the labyrinthine network of narrow corridors. And his startling confrontation with -

"Mesagog," he murmured hollowly, barely aware of speaking the name aloud. "He was waiting for me in Anton's office, and he never would have-"

"Mesa-who?"

His eyes automatically sprang back towards the sack and its despised contents. How could he do it? How could he tell Jason, the man who had entrusted him with the defense of the planet, that all of it, the entire disastrous chain of events, had been his fault? That he had been an utter fool?

He had thought he could control the Power. He had thought he could utilize it. He had thought he was experienced enough to harness it.

He had thought he could be Zordon.

Now Tommy understood that the night's tragedy had been the Power lashing back, bringing Mesagog down upon them in a rain of fire and death. And it was Anton who had paid the price, not him. Not he who had caused it, not he who should have known better, not he who had been so arrogant that...

"I can't." The words were uttered in a dead voice that didn't seem to belong to him at all. "I'm tired, Jase. I'm just really tired. Tomorrow, okay?"

"Bro. Please talk to me." Tommy knew his tendency to bury his emotions often drove Jason to the brink of madness, but a deep sigh was the only response he still had the energy to muster. He could almost hear Jason's grimace over the telephone line. "Tommy, there is nothing wrong with letting people who love you help you."

He flinched visibly, tightening his grip on the receiver. That was the crux of it. He wasn't certain that Jason would feel the same way after he knew the truth of what had happened. And frankly, he was sure he no longer deserved that level of support. "Tomorrow, Jase. We'll talk tomorrow," he repeated dully.

Clearly uneasy, the former red ranger finally succumbed. "Take care, bro. I'll be up there to see you in the morning, okay?"

"I'll call you," Tommy replied noncommittally before disconnecting the line.

He slumped further into his chair and allowed his eyes to drift shut, grimacing as his cracked ribs loudly protested the movement. He was so tired, so completely spent. Maybe just a few minutes of sleep...

_The sharp tang of the salty sea air slowly infused his senses. His body instinctively relaxed; he had spent so many weeks on the island recently that the scent of the ocean almost felt like home. He had even grown accustomed to the constant metallic thrum of the lab's self-supporting generators humming in the background, as if the island had a heartbeat of its own..._

_His eyes sprang open, suddenly startled into alertness by the perplexing familiarity overwhelming him. He sat up slowly, unable to comprehend the surprising feel of cool concrete against his fingers, the dense humidity in the air, even as his eyes took in the stacks of marked boxes and barrels of chemical components. The sudden recognition of the network of hallways nearly struck him dumb._

_This was the lower storage bay of the AMI complex._

_He was back on Mercer's island._

_A tortured shriek echoed through the stone underbelly of the facility and Tommy sprang to his feet, dread settling coldly into the pit of his stomach. Without thinking, without hesitating, he lurched into a full sprint, tearing through the eerily empty corridors towards the source of the sound._

_Anton._

_Another piercing cry, more strident in its urgency, reverberated through the halls, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere. He rocketed up the narrow concrete staircase into the main level of the facility, instinct driving the direction of his pounding feet. The way was far too familiar to him; he had spent many an evening with Anton over the past few months sharing both their professional opinions and personal ideologies as the quiet hours passed. They had grown close over these uninterrupted periods of camaraderie, and Tommy was proud to consider him amongst his friends – someone he trusted enough that he had considered revealing his _entire_ history, especially in light of their most recent find._

_The formidable set of double doors at the end of the hall loomed imposingly at the edge of his vision, but another, more pathetic scream spurred him to speed even faster towards the entrance to Anton's office. Gasping as he pushed himself harder still, he longed to reassure the more experienced scientist but his parched throat denied him even the feeblest squeak._

_An iron fist abruptly drove itself into his stomach, sending him hurtling across the marble floor and into the wall. Dozens of hooked claws reached for him, pulling at his khaki jacket, his pants, even his hiking boots. Heedless of his frenzied struggles, dozens of Tyrannodrones lifted him into a standing position, their sharp talons digging mercilessly into his exposed skin. He could do nothing but stare – where had they all come from?_

_The double doors swung open with a nightmarish sluggishness, slowly revealing the horrific scene behind. Mercer lay huddled on the ground, his leg twisted underneath him at an impossible angle. His normally pristine AMI lab coat – despite his fortune, Anton had never been a pretentious man and refused to wear clothing more appropriate for a billionaire C.E.O. – was now stained a dark crimson. Tommy could not stifle a sickened moan; the jagged tears in the material were chillingly reminiscent of bite marks. Anton's eyes slowly turned up to meet Tommy's, full of a wretched pleading. "Help me," he mouthed._

"_No," Tommy groaned, pulling helplessly at the iron grips around him._ This wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"_Anton is already dead, Tommy, don't you remember?" Mesagog hissed, his voice dripping with derision. "And all that is left is me." The beast growled then turned slowly to face Tommy, his mouth forming into a garish leer. He bared his gigantic teeth and turned quickly, sinking them into the soft flesh of –_

Tommy cried out, leaping to his feet in a rush of panic and terror. His fists flailed wildly in the dark as he reached for the reptilian creature, knocking over a lamp with a resounding crash. It was almost a full minute before he recognized his tiny apartment, and all the energy seemed to drain out of his body with the horrific realization that it was far too late to save anyone anymore. His worn body reacted violently, seeming to fold underneath him and sending him careening into the ground. His face contorted in agony as he dry heaved, struggling to hold back the waves of guilt that threatened to overcome him. Anton had been his friend for the past several years. He had fostered his interest in the ancient world, had given him a future, believed in him when even he hadn't... and Tommy had repaid him by leaving him to die.

Yet another mentor he had failed to save.

He finally opened his eyes, his face only inches from the decrepit backpack he had left lying carelessly on the ground. With shaking fingers, he unzipped the top and reached inside, withdrawing three lifeless gems: red, yellow, and blue.

None of them would accept him – he had known that for months. When he first discovered what they were, he had been bitterly disappointed that the red gem hadn't spoken to him; it was likely they would never bond with anyone now, not after they had been christened in Anton's blood.

A flash of red caught his eye and he glanced up, suddenly hopeful despite his newfound aversion to the gems. But it was the answering machine display again, still blinking "**1**" unforgivingly at him.

Puzzled, he sat up and tapped the Play button. He had been certain that he had deleted all the messages...

"Tommy? It's me. It's Kim. I know it's been a while, but..." He froze, his mind transported back to the only other time he had felt this lost, this despairing, this consumed with guilt – and the person who had been able to drag him from the abyss.

"_There is nothing wrong with letting people who love you help you."_

He was dialing before he realized he had picked up the phone, his white fingers gripping the receiver like a drowning man clutching at his last lifeline. He wasn't sure how he remembered the number she had left at the end of the message, but he didn't question it too deeply; his memory, often riddled with holes and pitfalls, had never failed him when it had been truly important. His heart began to pound wildly in his chest as he heard the phone spring to life.

_Ring. Ring._

Tommy swallowed thickly. It was almost 3 in the morning. What was he doing?

_Ring._ _Ring._

Did he _want _to be saved?

Did he even deserve it?

An unbelievably perky voice answered, startling Tommy into inaction. "Hi, this is Kim! I'm not here right now, or else I'm just ignoring you. If it's Jason, I'm _definitely_ ignoring you. Leave me a message, and I'll get back to you!"

Disappointment coursed through him even as he listened to Kimberly's teasing laughter at the end of the message. What had he been expecting anyhow? He pulled the phone away from his ear, searching for the Off button in the oppressive gloom.

"No! Wait! Hang on!"

Blinking, Tommy stared at the phone for a moment before gingerly pressing it back against his ear. "I'm coming!" The voice was distant, but definitely there. Like she had-

A resounding clatter echoed on the other end of the line. "Shit! Ow! Hold on! Don't hang up! Stupid freak- Ow! Shit!" There was a sound akin to scrambling, then suddenly a breathless, wonderfully familiar voice. "I'm here! Jason? Is that you? Have you heard anything?"

Despite all he had suffered in the past two days, a soft chuckle began to rumble deep in his chest. The idea that beautiful, graceful Kimberly – a woman gifted with the agility of the crane, the elegance of the firebird, the power to leap tall buildings in one fluid movement – had tripped over her own feet to get to the phone tickled something entrenched in his heart. Ignoring the pain in his ribs, Tommy laughed, low and hard and with a sense of relief beyond words.

"Um, Jase?"

"You know," Tommy began, clutching at his ribs and slipping back into his armchair. "I think that was the only thing that could possibly make me laugh right now."

There was a long pause, and Tommy could almost see Kim biting her lip on the other end of the line. The image was so sweetly nostalgic that it nearly brought tears to his bloodshot eyes.

"Tommy?" The mingled relief and hope in her voice, so totally undeserved, abruptly wiped the smile from his face.

"Hey Kim-" His voice hitched, suddenly choking on her name as a garbled sob escaped his traitorous lips.

"Oh God, Tommy. Are you okay?"

"I've been better," he admitted shakily, then instantly regretted it. This was a bad idea. He had never been able to lie to Kimberly, and he didn't have the strength left to tell her – or anyone – the truth. It was time to hang up, time to go.

"Tommy? Are you still there?"

Her compassion was killing him, breaking his resolve. "I'm okay," he said in a voice that no one would have believed. "I-"

"Tell me. Please tell me what's wrong."

"I… I can't, Kim, I can't. Oh God," he moaned, burying his head in his hands, the gems falling listlessly into his lap. They seemed to stare accusingly at him, knowing his sin, knowing what he had done, what he had caused.

"Oh, Tommy," Kim whimpered. She sounded so torn, as if hating how helpless she had become. "Tell me what I can do."

He drew in a ragged mouthful of air, trying to steady himself again. "Talk to me?" His voice was barely a whisper, a childlike plea in the night.

"What? I didn't hear... Tommy, what did you say?"

He cleared his throat, trying to speak. "Please," he begged, his voice verging on desperation. "Just talk to me." His mind asked what he dared not speak aloud: _Please make the nightmares go away._

He held his breath, grappling with the last of his composure, praying that she would understand his unspoken prayer. And even after all this time, after the years of silence, she still knew him. Still knew what do. Still knew how to be... well, how to be Kim.

"I'm living in New York now." She began hesitantly, unsure of herself; but as the words flowed, she relaxed, enjoying the feel of slipping back into an old, comfortable routine. "I ran into Tanya the other day, actually. She's really sweet – I like her. I only met her the once... um, right after the tournament, but I do like her. I think Tri would have, too. She's a lot like Aisha – I can see the family resemblance. And you should have seen her with the cabbies! She's definitely a yellow! What a firecracker! Imagine an early Saturday morning. All we had to do was grab a cab to JFK to get her on her flight. Have you ever been to New York? New York cabbies – they should totally be the eighth wonder of the world! I swear half of them really are aliens! And as someone who came into contact with aliens on a regular basis, I would know. Have you ever seen "Men In Black"? I think they had it right after all..."

Tommy found himself slowly easing back into the armchair, lulled into relaxation by the steady, bright chatter of her voice. He alternately fought back waves of grief and laugher at her wild stories, certain that she must be fabricating the majority, but loving her for it just the same. Tired eyes began to drift shut for longer and longer periods, his demons temporarily chased away by the sweet sound.

He suddenly jerked awake at the sound of her giggles, grimacing as his ribs protested yet again. He would have to remember to wrap them before seeing his parents tomorrow. Err, today.

He glanced at the clock, his eyes widening. "Kim?" he interrupted, his voice gravelly with disuse.

"Hmmm?"

He mentally calculated the time difference and grimaced. "Oh shit. It's like 5:30 over there."

Kimberly giggled again. "You never were good at time zones. It's 6:30." He couldn't believe the merriment he could still hear in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, his words slightly slurred with exhaustion.

"I'm not," she replied firmly, suddenly serious. "Why should you be?"

"I kept you up."

She laughed. "Technically, I kept you up." She paused, then added quickly, "Not like that! I mean, because I did all the talking! Jesus, I should know better than to chat with Rocky during his 'I'm drunk' calls – he's gone and finally corrupted me." He couldn't smother the surprised snort of laughter that erupted from his chest.

"Thank you." He had meant to be playful to match her own buoyant enthusiasm, but the deep gratitude in his suddenly gruff voice spoke volumes.

"Any time, Tommy. Really." She hesitated, and he could hear the depth of emotion in her next words. "You know I'll always be there for you."

His mind balked at the words, but his heart had already journeyed back nearly a decade to when a young girl had tenderly made that promise to her shy, awkward boyfriend, a boy suffering the agonized pangs of the Power being forcibly torn from his body; to when that same awkward boy, now with more confidence and strength, had returned that promise to the weakening girl, fear lighting her soft eyes. The ensuing smile that lit Tommy's features was one of unadulterated delight, illuminating his once haggard face with a radiance that drained away any residual tension. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a deep-rooted aching inside him had finally been laid to rest.

"I... I think I can sleep now," he murmured quietly, almost in awe. The sense of weightlessness and relief had been dizzying, yet his entire body felt more relaxed than it had ever been. The contentment never fading from his lips, his head already had begun to slowly settle onto his chest.

"Sweet dreams, Tommy," she replied softly, and it was like the whisper of an angel.

"Talk to you soon, beautiful," he slurred, already half-asleep.

Almost three thousand miles away, Kimberly Hart smiled, clutching the phone to her heart for a moment before hanging it quietly on the receiver. "I'm counting on it, Tommy," she whispered, and an ember of hope ignited in her chest for a friendship she had thought lost forever.


End file.
